


Daydreams about Night Things

by crowdedangels



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Episode: S3e01 The White Warrior, Episode: s3e02 Of Children and Travellers, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-11
Updated: 2019-04-11
Packaged: 2020-01-11 18:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18429485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowdedangels/pseuds/crowdedangels
Summary: It was all the same but different. He was still hunched over the tiny basin, still without a shirt and her eyes still unable to drag themselves away of the tanned, thick skin littered with silver scars, healed wounds and signs of fifty years of life.





	Daydreams about Night Things

**Author's Note:**

> My ABFF has caught the Longmire bug which means she now suffers my capslocky texts at all hours. Soz pal! 
> 
> I had a really quiet work afternoon and got to Google Mapsing the route from Sheridan-ish to Arizona (as you do). Turns out they took some creative license with that scene!
> 
> Titles from a song by Ronnie Milsap.

“We couldn't have just flown?” Vic asked, sick of watching the signs for the airport whizz past them, the distance in mileage getting tantalisingly closer with no signs of turning for it. 

 

She was not completely overjoyed at the prospect of seventeen hours  _ one way _ to Arizona. Of course, she understood the purpose of going out there, but  _ seventeen hours?  _ Well, fifteen now but still. 

 

“Quicker to drive.”

 

She heaved a sigh and sat back in the seat, tapping her fingers against the door. It was going be a long trip. 

 

The scenery didn't change. Apart from the occasional mile marker and shrub, only the gentle motion of the tires told her they were going anywhere. 

 

“Wanna play the license plate game?” She looked to him again with childlike exuberance and only a hint of malice.

 

He twitched of his lips into a smirk as he looked to the vast expanse of asphalt ahead of them with not one single car approaching for miles. 

 

Accepting defeat, she curled her elbow onto the door and rested her head in her hand. A few more mile markers, tumbleweeds and gentle motion of the truck and she was asleep. 

 

And suddenly she was back in the bathroom, all those weeks ago when Branch had been shot and Walt was washing his blood from his hands. 

 

It was all the same but different. He was still hunched over the tiny basin, still without a shirt and her eyes still unable to drag themselves away of the tanned, thick skin littered with silver scars, healed wounds and signs of fifty years of life.

 

He was opposite of pale, smooth chested Sean. 

 

She could smell it again. Earthy and spicy, like petrichor and black pepper. Like he had been driving through the desert heat with the windows down, dust and sand stuck to the day’s sweat. The leather of his jacket and the sickly floral of the soap bar with the lingering scent of the morning’s spritz of aftershave. She recognised it as Spice Bomb aftershave and it made her knees weak - she’d bought it for Sean but it didn’t smell the same when he actually wore it, but on him? 

 

The bathroom was so small, his huge frame almost filling the space. Him. The hairy planes of his large body, the scent, his challenge as he turned her as he put his shirt on. 

 

It was all the same but different; different but the same. This time she hadn’t shut the door properly and he reached his hand over her shoulder to shut it, a soft  _ snick  _ right by her ear. He leaned closer as he did so and her stomach tightened. She could feel the heat from his arm so close to her cheek, his darkened eyes boring into hers with such intensity that she felt a heated flush travel her body; like he was all over her, right there but so far away.

 

He sighed out a breath and it fluttered across her skin. Her eyes closed and he took a step forward, the hand that was on the door went to the back of her head, threading into her hair (hadn't it just been in a ponytail?) and tilting her lips to his.

 

Then it was like time sped up. Hands roamed, tongues smoothed across the other, groans, gasps. He stooped to curl his hand around the back of her thigh and she let him lift her to his waist, her ankles crossing under his ass as she was pressed against the door. 

 

Her hands cupped his face, scraped through his hair, splayed across his back. Constantly in motion, tugging, pulling on his belt, popping all of the buttons in his fly, lips against his, tongues wetly smoothing across each other, his mouth down her neck, between her breasts, _oh_ _god_ on her nipple, teeth, tongue, _fuck_ , his fingers fumbling with the waistband of her underwear-

 

“Vic...”

 

She flooded with wetness between her legs at his voice, her name in that whisky-soaked baritone of his.

 

“ _ Vic. _ ”

 

Her head fell off her elbow and suddenly she was back in the truck, back on the highway, and very much not in that bathroom. “ _ Fuck _ ,” she breathed, looking around at everything to ground her and drag her from the visceral dream that still clung to her in erotic tendrils.

 

“You okay?”

 

She watched him retract his hand from her shoulder, his touch still burning her skin like she could feel where every long finger had curled around her. “Hmm?”

 

He flicked a look to her then back on the road, then back on her with soft concern and slight amusement, “Seemed like you were having a nightmare.”

 

“...What?” She straightened up in the seat and was suddenly very aware of the slickness between her legs.  _ Oh shit _ had she…? She hadn’t…  _ moaned _ ? Had she? She wracked her brain for what she had done or said during the dream, which didn’t help her situation one bit because the heat rebuilt in her veins and she had to crush her eyes together in frustration. Thank God for sunglasses.

 

“Vic?”

 

“Yeah. Sorry. How long was I out?”

 

“Ten minutes?”

 

She let out a very loud, very frustrated sigh. Great. Fourteen hours and fifty minutes stuck in a tin can, hyper aware of his every movement and waft of his aftershave, and of the still throbbing arousal between her legs. 

 

He flashed a look to her again, concern etched across his face as she stared straight ahead with flushed and burning concentration. He could only assume it had been a nightmare about Gorski and his knuckles tightened around the wheel. 

 

Her peripheral vision caught him swiping at his lips, usually meaning he was thinking of what to say and she braced at what ever was about to be said. She hadn’t said his name had she?  _ Fuck _ what if she’d said his name?

 

“Wanna play ‘I spy’?”

  
  



End file.
